In Other Words, A Budgie

Starsky tumbled through the door when Hutch was opening his second beer, bumping a large cylindrical object enveloped in blue flannel over the threshold.

“What do you have there?” Hutch hurried over to steady his friend before Starsky and his unwieldy load ended up squashed between the piano and the coffee table.

Placing the cage, for now Hutch could see the bottom and a sliver of the silver metal bars from under the edge of the blue covering, on the piano bench, Starsky paused to take a breath.

“Mrs. Vandervoort died the other day,” he announced. There was a disembodied, quite disgruntled, peep from the cage.

“Am I supposed to know who that is?” Hutch asked irritably. He hadn’t expected a visitor, not even Starsky. This was his wallow night. He knew very well it wasn’t good for his psyche, sitting in the dark after the sun went down, nursing beers and maybe a wedge of cheese. But that’s what he wanted to do. What he deserved after… Well, maybe what his psyche needed was to stare at the hideous statue of Cupid and Psyche, and think about what had happened to his life. To joy and love.

“She’s my next door neighbor,” Starsky said. Another bird sound erupted from underneath the blue shroud. “Her son Casper found her lyin’ there on the linoleum, and Anthus hadn’t been fed in days.”

As usual, Starsky’s explanations required not just further explanation but Cliff notes. “Anthus is a bird?” he guessed from the chirps emitting from the cage. Which made sense, actually, since in Greek literature, Anthus had died and his family was transformed into birds.

“See, I knew you’d understand!”

Hutch decided not to admit that he still didn’t because Starsky’s praise and everlasting belief in him always buoyed his inner spirit. “Why do you have Anthus?” he asked in spite of himself. Really, he wanted more beer and, possibly, a long shower until his skin got raisiny.

“I’m giving him to you,” Starsky said reasonably, flipping the cover off the cage. Inside was a veritable bird palace with two little trapeze swings, a small bin half full of birdseed, a long water container with a metal straw at one end, and a blue and silver braided rope with a bell at the bottom. The cover and the rope were exactly the same shade of blue as the bird cocking its head to peer at Hutch with beady black eyes. “You need something to care for.”

Opening his mouth to retort that bold statement, Hutch couldn’t find the words to respond. “I need a beer,” he said finally. “You?”

“Sure,” Starsky said with a fond, if slightly exasperated, smile. He poked his finger between two metal bars on the cage. “You’ll like it here, Anthus, Hutch will feed you real good. He waters his plants every day, just about.”

“I can’t have a bird!” Hutch protested, grabbing two cans of Coors from the fridge and putting them on the coffee table next to the statue. “Remember what we told Larry about keeping kittens?”

“He wasn’t offering us the kittens,” Starsky corrected. “He was namin’ them after us. And—” He interrupted Hutch’s further attempts at objection by getting louder. “And, before you go saying Mrs. Vandervoort didn’t feed him for days, and you’ve got an unpredictable schedule…”

Hutch nodded because that was exactly what he was going to say.

Starsky held up a finger as if to sword fight the one Hutch leveled at him. “She didn’t feed Anthus for days because she died, and that’s not going to happen to you.”

“Everybody dies,” Hutch countered.

Anthus was moving his head back and forth, following the debate like a tennis match fan.

Starsky frowned, obviously troubled and then waved a hand as if wiping that thought away entirely. “I know. But you’re not gonna die ‘til—decades from now, right? And you got me, Huggy, lots of people, who can come over and throw some seed in the tray.”

Before Hutch could launch another salvo again, Starsky patted him on the belly, looking him straight in the eye.

Hutch felt like he was drowning, going down deep in those dark blue depths. God, how had he let it get this bad so quickly? Usually, he could avert the longing by transferring the reaction. Irritation generally worked the best with Starsky. Because he was definitely annoying—and an incredible friend.

“Hutch, you’ve had it rough lately. Abby and you hit the skids, so you found Gillian and then…” Starsky petered out, clearly at a loss to describe the emotional scene after Hutch arrived at Gillian’s house to find Starsky there and Gillian dead on the floor.

The crying. Two men hugging, tears streaming down their cheeks when Starsky declared that Hutch was the best friend he had in the whole world.

A knife thrust of jumbled sensation hit Hutch hard, when he realized it had been two whole months. She’d died in October and here it was only weeks to Christmas.

“You need someone to care for, buddy,” Starsky said rapidly. “Abby’s gone, you gotta… refocus your brain.” He nodded, his entire plan laid out. “Anthus needs someone, too.”

“But—” Hutch paused, wishing with all his might that Starsky hadn’t moved that hand to wave at the damned bird. Hutch could still feel the solid warmth of him. “I have someone to care about.”

Starsky looked back, hesitant, with a wary question in his eyes.

That distrust was warranted. Hutch hadn’t told him about Jeannie for weeks, to the detriment of his own health and sanity, and then hadn’t come clean about Gillian for a month, which could have abetted in the end of her life, and his current desolation. When would he learn?

Now, that’s when.

“It ain’t good to sit around drinking beer and watching It’s a Wonderful Life,” Starsky said wisely, giving Hutch a one armed hug. “You need an outlet. Someone to care for.”

Throwing caution to the wind, Hutch swaddled Starsky with both arms, pulling him close to rest his chin against the side of Starsky’s curls. “I have someone to care for, dummy. You.”

Starsky detached just enough to be able to look squarely at Hutch. Something must have reassured him because their lips met in mutual consent.

Hutch was sure he could feel elemental changes occurring. Of shifts in consciousness that created order from the chaos his life had been. Talk about overcoming obstacles. No wonder he’d been drunkenly contemplating Psyche and Cupid.

A curly haired Cupid had shot an arrow aimed at his own psyche, scoring a direct hit.

“Babe.” Starsky breathed into his soul, his tongue flicking between Hutch’s lips to penetrate his inner depths.

It was terrifying and motivating in equal measure. “You’re the one I’ve always cared about,” Hutch murmured into Starsky’s ear.

“Yeah?” Starsky pressed a kiss against his neck and wiped away the wet place with the ball of his thumb. “You were thinking about me?”

“In a way, you’re always in my brain, even when I’m not conscious of it,” Hutch said softly, glancing for a moment at the ugly statue. It had actually come with the apartment, a curio left behind by the last tenant. “You’re the…” He stroked Starsky’s neck down to the shoulder, making Starsky giggle. “You’re the frame around my thoughts, especially when I’m down.”

“It’s been tough—not just counting the ladies.” Starsky sat on the couch, tugging Hutch down beside him. “What happened with Lisa, not to mention Iron Mike getting killed—we need some quiet time.” He fit his hand into the same place on Hutch’s belly it had been before. Only this time, he pushed his fingers up under Hutch’s cream cable knit sweater. “Some time to care…”

“About each other?” Hutch shivered at the press of Starsky’s fingers on his belly. It wasn’t from cold or fear. This was arousal—something he’d never expected from Starsky’s touch and yet, with knowledge, came clarity–had always anticipated.

Because he’d loved Starsky from first sight, but never allowed himself to dwell on that.

“Damn.” Starsky surged up against him, as if he were a magnet and Hutch was metal. Their lips sealed together, a bond of strength and love.

Kissing Starsky was life affirming. Hutch always enjoyed kissing women. He’d loved women, and still did, but this was on an entirely different plane of existence. He felt like Starsky was bringing his heart back to life.

Anthus made a gleeful caw, tapping the little bell with his beak.

Starsky giggled, falling back against the couch cushions. “I think he’d cheering us on. After living with Mrs. Vandervoort for all this time, probably the only action he’s ever seen.”

Hutch grinned, knowing he probably looked goofy as heck, but that was how he felt. As if he could fly. Ironically, Anthus could not. Hutch recognized a clipped wing when he saw one. “My mother had a blue budgie.”

“Parakeet,” Starsky corrected.

“Mother was born in England. She always called Theodosia a budgie,” Hutch explained, touching Starsky’s cheek just because he could.

“What’s the difference?” Starsky inclined his head slightly to lean into Hutch’s palm.

“Nothing as far as I know. British versus American.” Hutch hitched a breath, incredibly aroused. His evening had changed course so quickly, and all because of a bird. “Or in other words, Melopsittacus undulatus.” For once, he had some trivia knowledge Starsky did not.

“Melop ti cuss undulate-us?” Starsky snorted with laughter. “I’d like to fucking undulate you…”

“Sweet talker.” Hutch punctuated that with a kiss on his beloved’s lips.

His beloved. His irritating, wonderful, funny partner who always knew exactly what he needed in life. And a parakeet, as well.

“Anthus can stay—” Hutch held up what Starsky had once termed his finger of doom. “As long as you come over and feed him regularly.”

“Like every day?” Starsky asked seriously with a gleam in his eye, clasping Hutch’s raised finger to curl into his fist. “To be consistent. And check on his owner, right?”

“That’s my bottom line,” Hutch agreed.

What a fine future that would be.

FIN